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As noted before, I’ve been sending stories out since 1989. Am I a famous author? I am not. But I have been professionally published, and for the indulgence of other rewarding interests, I may have been farther along in my writing career.

What I have learned about writing and its profession:

If you are going to write, write novellas or novels. I have always had very good ideas. My interest in getting into short story markets made me edit these ideas down to the market optimum 4000 words. Editors would respond “Needs more”. I would move on to the next idea which I would cut down, etc. I thought ideas were putty that could be massaged into any length. An idea is a block of marble. Cut one wrong and the whole statue is ruined.

If you are going to write short stories, get paid for them. Thankfully, I always had this rule. Getting upvotes in your writing community feels good. Sooner or later you will want more. Cut out the middleman and go straight to market.

If you aren’t getting paid for your story, self-publish. This wasn’t available to me earlier of course, but it is something I will pursue.

Network. Life is all about “who you know.” It’s uncomfortable. The good news is everyone’s uncomfortable too.

Save originality for later. I went straight for “sensational”, “innovative”, and “original”. What I didn’t learn was “structure”, “character development”, and “simplicity”. One idea per plot. Write your slash. File off those serial numbers. Study your authors and write pastiches. That said…

Invent your own magic system. Play in someone else’s sandbox, they get the right to pick nits.

Be nice. Any professional community is like High School. One tweet can set back years of work. Small communities thrive on making outcasts. Be nice.

I used to think “write what makes your mother uncomfortable” and the audience will find you. Instead, your priority is “write what you love and look for your audience.”

Ignore other writers. You can become distracted, frustrated, and despair. If you can’t ignore another writer’s work, that’s one of the few writer you should study.

Classes, conventions, retreats, and Clarion-Odyssey-Taos Toolbox-that thing Tom Monteleone does…do them. I have wasted tens of thousands of dollars sitting in coffee shops. The writers who have gone to bigger things sacrificed to do these activities to learn and network. That said…

The Most Important Advice:

Accept that any of your ideas may suck. No amount of rewriting or networking will help an idea that sucks. Move on to the next idea. I wasted about four years rewriting a bunch of half-baked, “sensational” ideas. They sucked. I should have moved on. Now if a story doesn’t get published in the first few submissions, I trunk it and move on.

“…it’s what happens in the United States when a truly radical ideology takes over.” This is George Romero’s answer to the question of what his film Night of the Living Dead is about. To me, this is a most thoughtful and complete assessment, and perhaps what explains the movie’s enduring success. Of course, on […]

We were in our places, Olivia at the door and I in the wicker basket. The windows were concealed with heavy curtains to keep out the afternoon sun, but oil lamps pushed back the gloom. The lady who entered our study first was the old friend of Olivia’s family, who embraced Olivia, then introduced her guests. The other matron wore black; she was the hopeful patron. The men were young, one balding and mustached and the other dark and intense. They were surprised by her frank smile, by her firm handclasp, and smirked to each other.

The basket that hid me was a cubit square. Within it, I sat naked on a thin cotton mat, waiting for my cue.

After brief pleasantries, Olivia bade everyone sit at the mismatched slat chairs around our worn table. Slowly, not without drama, she turned the gas lamps down.

“Everyone take hands, please. This afternoon, we speak with the spirits. I need for everyone to speak these holy words of the Hindu. Om mani padme hum.”

Her resonance and theatrics gave the others confidence. The older ladies intoned with Episcopalian reserve. The men seemed strangely comfortable with the trappings, and joined in.

The chant rose in pitch.

This was my cue, as thespians say. I lay back and breathed deep, humid air inflating my months-old lungs. As I inhaled, I imagined the proper yantra symbol. I exhaled my own mantra to release my spirit from my misshapen flesh.

“Come to us, Alecsandri. Come to us, spirits.”

I continued my chant and let myself drift, imagining myself in warm black oil. As she implored, the study was swallowed by the warm oil. My spirit rose from the basket. My hands glowed, my fingers lithe. My spirit body shone golden and tall, like before I had forced myself into Thomas Spalding’s brain and was reborn in the manikin shape.

The bodies of the attendants glowed with auras of life. Rainbows flared along the older women. The bald man’s was a healthy bronze. The young man’s was odd. The flares were violet and tight, like a gas burner pressed by a weight. Olivia’s lavender opened and extended across the room as she entered her trance, so that she could communicate with the spirit realm.

Unseen by the others, I drifted to Olivia and caressed her neck. Touching her spirit was like touching soothing wool on a winter day. Feeling me, her head eased back and magenta sparks streaked her neck after my fingertips.

She said, “My spirit guide is with us. Are you ready to help us, Guru?”

Her head fell forward and she affected a deeper, thicker-tongued man’s voice, an impersonation of me when I was human. “Olivia, I am always pleased to make new acquaintances. These are charming people.”

She sighed and rolled in her seat, as if buffeted by forces within. In her voice: “I sense a presence with you, Guru. Who is with you?”

I had been too distracted by Olivia to notice. A disembodied glow had appeared by one of the women. It was the size of a grown man, and boiled red. It pointed to the older woman.

My debut novel was on the preliminary ballot for the 2015 Stoker Awards.

“In this excellent novel, the writing is crisp, the characters sharply drawn, the plot engrossing; as a result, this tightly written and propulsive narrative addresses postmodern angst about humanity and spirituality in the context of body horror and psychosexual transcendence with literary flair and at times deeply disturbing imagery.”

“The Flesh Sutra is unique and utterly absorbing. Combining horror, spirituality, dark humor and romance, it weaves a spell around the reader from the first page and won’t release you until the last. Even then, this tale of corrupt, mystical love will linger in your memory. Can’t wait to read more from this author!”